


Floodwater || This Thing of Ours

by AuthenticAussie



Series: and we can watch the stars on the water [50]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthenticAussie/pseuds/AuthenticAussie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gin doesn't stop coming in; not the day after, not the week.</p><p>Sanji settles to it after a month, but it is still one of the strangest routines he's ever had.</p><p>He can't say he minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floodwater || This Thing of Ours

**Author's Note:**

> An art trade with the absolutely amazing nekokat42 ;u;  
> It is also their birthday today, so shoo lil ones, go say happy birthday! <3
> 
> Hope you enjoy, btw, and as always, please R & R!

_First of all,_ Sanji thinks, _that is total bullshit._

_Second of all, you shouldn’t be able to fit into that._

The kid blinks at him, all wide eyes and wide grins, gullible and flexible and curled into a tiny box and the parts of Sanji that aren’t speechless in incredulity go _what the fuck._

“Get out of there,” he grouses instead, and the kid unfolds himself from a box that’s about a quarter his size. Sanji’s brain does another mental gymnastic flip to try and work out how the kid would’ve fit. Sure, he was lanky, but he wasn’t rubber!

“Hello!” the kid chirps, grinning and grabbing a crushed straw hat, brushing it off and plopping it on his head. “Thanks for opening that! I was stuck.”

Sanji tries not to think about how long the kid may’ve been ‘stuck’ in there, considering the fact that he only rarely opens the trash compactor. They don’t need it, not when he and Zeff are so adamant about using all the scraps they can.  He also doesn’t think about this kid curled up in a _trash compactor,_ because that’d give him heart palpitations, and he’s 23 and way too young to die of a heart attack.

“You’re welcome.” He manages, still eyeing the kid, and drops a box of empty soda cans into the compactor.

The kid gives him the same once-over, blatantly curious and completely unsubtle, and the only reason Sanji hasn’t snapped out a sharp reply is because-

Well, he’s still befuddled by the fact that this kid fit inside their trash compactor. And had been _sleeping._ Who the hell _does_ _that_?

The kid rocks back on his heels, tucking his hands into his pockets, and flashes Sanji another wide grin. “I’m Luffy!”

* * *

Luffy is part barnacle, Sanji decides after a week. He sticks around and no matter what Sanji tries, Luffy seems to have taken it into his head that he’s going to be part of the Baratie’s furniture, begging for food and being a general pest. Sanji has half a mind to go down to the docks and con one of the sailors out of a barnacle scraper, just to see if it will get rid of Luffy and his stupid straw hat.

And then the bullshit with Gin goes down.

When he says “bullshit” he truly means it, because it _is_ bullshit that Gin should think he could take on Sanji and win, but that’s what happens.

Of course, at the time, he doesn’t know Gin; what he knows is that one second he’s cursing his lighter, trying to take a smoke break, and the next, said lighter has been sliced in half and there is something sharp and pointy at his throat.

He’s understandably pissed – he was quite fond of that lighter.

Plus, the sharp pointy things. Sanji decides that he is not a fan.

Before he can take the time to separate this bastard’s head from his body, however, Luffy decides to tackle the stranger and it is the very first time Sanji is glad that Luffy has been hanging around. It means he gets to look threatening and suave, and that is a very good first impression to make.

He tucks his hands into his pockets, and the sun frames his head, making the guy Luffy is sitting on squint. That could also be because of a concussion, but at this point, Sanji is having more fun pretending that it is due to his terrifying entrance and the sunlight behind him, casting his features into sharp shadow. “Who’re you?” he demands, and the man spits out several curses.

Sanji just tuts at him.

“A gentleman should accept defeat gracefully,” he chides, and the man sneers.

“Fuck you,” the stranger growls, and that sets Luffy into a fit of quiet giggles. While he’s distracted, Sanji’s angry attacker pushes Luffy off him and stumbles to his feet, brandishing his sharp things.

Actually, Sanji should figure out what they’re called soon. Even calling them sharp things in his head makes him feel stupid. “Why did you just try and threaten me?” he asks conversationally, and watches as the stranger scoffs.

“Tried to kill you. Did you not notice that?”

He smirks, and replies flippantly, “As if you could.”

Sanji has half a second of warning when the stranger’s weight shifts, and then there is a blur of silver making him weave right. He grins, easily dancing out of the way, and sees from the corner of his eye that Luffy has taken up residence on a window ledge.

 _Perfect,_ he thinks, and then his leg snaps out and he catches the stranger in the chest. When his foot impacts, the stranger’s body flies backwards, too light for the force Sanji has given to that kick. Sanji frowns, and his weight settles on the ground, concern in his eyes.

As the stranger clambers to his feet with a groan, Sanji begins to notice the subtle edge of bent elbows and sunken cheeks; dark eyes almost swallowed by sallow, bruised skin, the deep purple of no sleep. Sanji slides his foot back, turning on his heel. He’s not going to fight someone on unequal ground, not like this.

“Hey!” his opponent shouts, and Sanji hears him finally get to his feet. “Get back here!”

“Why?” he asks, turning his head slightly, “You’re in no position to fight.” The stranger’s lip curls into a growl, and Sanji sighs. “Hey, Luffy, watch him for me?”

Luffy shrugs and smiles, and Sanji tries to pretend that he hasn’t gotten used to Luffy being around. That would just lead to trouble, and right now he has no interest in bending to the whims and ways of a grinning idiot.

He ducks inside and steals some fruit from the pantry, unsure as to whether or not the stranger will actually stay with Luffy on guard. Sanji would’ve cooked something if he knew for certain that this starving man wouldn’t try and hurt him as soon as he gets close. He almost considers it anyway, but then shakes his head and goes back outside.

 Sanji throws an apple to Luffy, who chirps his praises and cries out in glee, and then throws another at the stranger. The stranger flinches but manages to catch it, clenching the apple awkwardly around his weapon.

“Tell me your name and I’ll give you the last,” he says, watching the stranger’s eyes follow the apple when he throws it up and catches it again. He’ll give it without an answer, but Sanji’s not above bribery and this stranger has gotten an apple already, one he holds so tightly that Sanji is sure in a few minutes the skin will bruise.  

He can see hesitance, but then resignation, and watches the stranger’s body move with a deep sigh. “Gin. My name is Gin.”

Luffy’s expression, first rapturous when presented with food, twists.

“Nice to meet you,” Sanji replies, and throws the other apple at Gin, making a note to question Luffy later. “Try and kill me again and I won’t show you any mercy.”

“I never asked for it,” Gin growls, trying to balance fruit and his weapons, and though his voice is threatening and he glares, Sanji feels like laughing at how much Gin struggles to keep hold of the fruit he’s been given.

Sanji shrugs, and Luffy bounces from the ledge, scampering ahead of him and into the Baratie.

Gin doesn’t try and attack him when his back is turned, so Sanji counts this as a victory.

Though honestly, if Gin was an assassin he certainly does a piss poor job of it. Not attacking when Sanji’s back is turned…

He appreciates it, sure, but it’s stupid.

* * *

 

See, Sanji is good at ignoring things; his eyes glide over flaws and excuses are easy for him to make up – but Gin refuses to be ignored, and Sanji has never, ever, been able to find it in himself to ignore anyone who needs food.

When he shows up a week later, this time with hands that barely hold his weapons, Sanji sighs but lets him in. The Baratie’s customers make quiet noises of shock, titters of distaste in the air as Gin’s boots leave dirt on the wooden floors and his weapons make a _clik-scritch_ sound every time they hit the ground. Amidst angry hisses from the other cooks, he grips Gin’s skinny bicep and pulls him from the front door.  

“What do you want?” they had all demanded, ignoring how desperate Gin looked when he said _please_ and _this is all I have._

Sanji still remembers a time when those words would have been his own, and he would have done anything to be shoved into a kitchen this grand. When Sanji gently tugs on Gin’s weapons, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to use them but wanting to give the other cooks a sense of safety, Gin lets them go without complaint, exhausted. He whips up a plate of fried rice, and when he smacks it down in front of Gin, Gin looks about to cry.

“Eat it slow,” is all he orders, because judging by the muscle atrophy, Gin hasn’t had proper food for a while, and eating too fast is just going to make him sick. Gin only barely heeds him, and Sanji distracts Luffy while Gin eats, internally regretting adding salt to that meal – Gin’s grateful, quiet tears add more than enough.  

Gin slows, finally, when the plate has been licked clean, and Sanji takes it; fills it up again. Gin looks like he’s going to be sick, but at the same time he still eyes the shrimp and rice like a wolf.

When that plate is halfway clean, Gin’s shoulders slump; “You shouldn’t do this,” he says quietly, speaking more to the rice, and Sanji’s lips quirk at that mental image. He’d heard the cooks talking about the marks on Gin’s oversized jacket, the snakes and earrings and the dark, angry eyes, and it amuses him to think that someone they whisper about in fear talks to rice.

“And why not?” he asks instead of mentioning that thought.

Gin’s hands tighten around his spoon and the plate, but he doesn’t answer Sanji – not properly.

“Don Krieg wants a chef.”

Sanji pauses and leans against the table in the middle of the kitchen, watching him. He’s not sure why, but he thinks Gin is giving him a warning and an offer all in one. Sanji knows that this is trouble, handed to him on a silver platter, but he’s always gone looking for trouble – he doesn’t want it given to him.

 “Not interested.” He says, and watches Gin’s jaw clench.

“You’ll die.”

“Nah.” Sanji says flippantly, “Not really interested in that, either.”

Gin sighs – and doesn’t he seem to do a lot of that? – but gets up with the scrape of chair on tile. “I am- sorry. For trying to kill you. Sorry for this.” He says tentatively, gently placing down the spoon. “Thank you- for the food. Both times.”

Sanji grins, and then Gin is gone, his departure as strange as his arrival and greeted with as much cacophony when he steps into the restaurant.

Luffy, uncharacteristically silent for the whole encounter, finally speaks up. “I don’t think I want you to die.” He says, and Sanji grins, grabbing the plate and stacking it in the pile of other dirty dishware.

“Yeah, I ain’t fond of the notion either.”

Luffy purses his lips, looking slightly upset with Sanji’s flippant tone, and pouts when Sanji ruffles his hair. “You should join my gang.”

* * *

 

He’ tells Luffy he’s busy.

It’s honestly one of the stupidest excuses he’s ever come up with, but it serves well enough…

Until Luffy returns, the day after. He sticks his head on the window frame outside the kitchen and chatters brightly, any reservations gone, and Sanji winces to think that before this had been Luffy’s definition of ‘ _quiet’_.

In a week, he’s got half the Baratie tied around his finger, _somehow,_ and Zeff starts giving Sanji sharp glances when Luffy repeatedly extends the invitation to join his gang. Sanji doesn’t see why he should go, and it pisses him off that Zeff is so eager to get rid of him.

When Zeff tries to get Carne and Patty to literally _force_ him to go with Luffy one day, Sanji finally snaps. He corners Zeff near the fridge, wielding a spatula and a glower, but Zeff only crosses his arms impassively. “What, eggplant?”

“I spent too long working on becoming sous chef to just let you hand it over to one of these incompetent idiots,” he growls, and Zeff scoffs.

“Don’t worry, they’d probably all pick up your job faster than you did.”

“Shut up,” he says, nose scrunched in a way he knows Zeff says makes him look childish but unable to stop his scowl. “I’m damn near perfect at my job, so _fuck you._ ”

Zeff scoffs again, and Sanji grits his teeth. Luffy laughs behind them, distracted by one of the cooks’ stories, and Sanji’s anger only grows. He can’t _believe_ that Zeff wants to get rid of him, and wants to do it using a gullible _idiot._

“Doesn’t matter how _good_ you are if you’re a coward,” Zeff sneers, chin tilting imperiously. “A real chef knows when to take a chance on something new.”

Sanji freezes; swallows. He tries to stay righteously angry, but his rage seeps from him like he’s being poured through a spaghetti strainer. He knows Zeff is right, no matter how annoying it is to admit it.

“I’m not going for you, you old geezer,” he finally snaps at Zeff, throwing down the spatula and pulling off his apron. “And you better believe that I’m gonna be coming back.”

When he strides away he ignores Zeff grinning at his back, and Luffy grinning in front of him, and how stupid it is to feel his heart torn in two. Half of him wants all of home, safety and familiarity, but the rest of him begs his head for adventure, and he’s not ashamed to admit he’s caved to the longing.

He’s good at ignoring things, though, and shoves back homesickness.  

* * *

 

Luffy is so fucking _excited_ that Sanji is there that Sanji barely gets a chance to rest. He is given a speedy ‘tour’ of their ‘territory’ (and oh god, Sanji knew that Luffy probably had a long way to go, but _this_ was just pathetic.) and then is hustled around to meet the rest of Luffy’s ‘gang’. Honestly, calling it a gang is a bit of a stretch. They usually just run around, getting into the occasional fight and messing with the police.

For all his pickiness, however, Luffy has staked out a nice place, and the people he’s collected seem nice enough as well. It is easy to fit with them, and they aren't all that far from the Baratie, leaving Sanji with plenty of time to go back and forth between his new "job" and his old one.

It's on one of the days when he's finally had some free time that Zeff catches him as he comes through the back door.

“Some guy was waiting for you. Sharp nose, dark hair.”

Sanji nods distractedly, already running through meals for the night, and Zeff has to forcibly shepherd him out the door, angrily grumbling about how Sanji's friend is scaring all the customers.

How Usopp can scare anyone is a mystery, one that is very easy solved when Sanji steps from the kitchen and realises that his "friend" is in fact not actually his friend.

Gin shifts awkwardly, and half waves. Sanji considers groaning. "Come on then," he grumbles, trudging back into the kitchen, and Gin jumps to follow, startled.

The cooks are not pleased to see that Gin is back, nor that Sanji is the one who bought him. They’re even less pleased when Sanji tosses him an apron, but cease their grumbles when Sanji casts them a sharp glare and sets Gin to washing dishes. No-one likes washing the dishes.

Gin stands there for a moment, utterly befuddled, but then sets to work like he’s almost afraid Sanji will kick him if he doesn’t. He’s right, of course, and Sanji’s rather proud Gin’s figured that out so fast.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, when Gin has finally settled into a rhythm. Gin misses a spot, almost slipping into the hot, soapy suds.

“I- uh-,” Gin says, eyes widening slightly. Sanjiconsiders a cigarette while he waits; knows Zeff would kick him from the kitchen. Knows he’d kick himself. “Could I work here? My family-”

 “No.” Sanji answers bluntly. Even if he has the patience for lies, it doesn’t mean he wants to listen to them. “Next lie, please? Make it better than the last.” Gin looks so undeniably startled that Sanji almost laughs, and he’s unable to hold back his grin, shaking his head. “What? Did you really think I was that stupid? That I wouldn’t try and find out who you were, when all my cooks stare at you like you’re going to knock someone’s head off?”

“We’re not _your_ cooks, Sanji!” someone roars, and Sanji ducks a whisk thrown at his head. Gin hasn’t stopped staring in shock.

“Fuck you Carne!” he turns his attention back to Gin, still grinning at Gin’s open-mouth look of incredulity. “You want my time, you better keep washing,” he remarks smoothly, and Gin jolts into movement again.   

“Don Krieg wanted me to see what the Baratie was like. Wanted me to get our payment off the owner again – kill you if he didn’t.”

Sanji snorts at that, remarks, “And you had so much luck the first time.”

“You never know. This could be a particularly good surprise attack.”

“Fat lot of good a surprise attack will do with your hands as pruned as a grandfather’s.”

Gin looks at him for half a second, frowning, and then pulls his hands out of the water. Sanji’s right – they do look more like an old man’s hands, wrinkled and red from steam. There are criss-crosses of scars marring each knuckle, fine ghost-like lines against his skin. Sanji thinks to his own hands and wonders about Luffy’s and Zoro’s and Nami’s.  

So many different hands holding stories like tangible things, with all their little scars. He wonders how many stories Gin can tell; how many scars are part of them.

* * *

 

Gin doesn’t stop coming in; not the day after, not the week.  

He settles to it after a month, but it is still one of the strangest routines he’s ever had.

He can’t say he minds.

* * *

 

Sanji spends a lot of time at the Baratie, even with Luffy now dragging him around town at every feasible opportunity. It’s nice, sometimes, to just sit down at the kitchen table after the dinner rush when the only people still there are the few couples so lost in each other that even Zeff doesn’t have the heart to remove them.

He nurses a cup of sweet tea in his hands, slowly draining it as the cooks finish with the last of their own rituals, and they bid him goodbye. He waves, offers them the tiniest, tiredest smile. One of their new choreboys offers to make him a new pot of tea, but he declines. He has more than enough left.

Everything is quiet, and so it is easy to hear when Gin stumbles in, throwing his apron over a hook and running his hand through his hair with a sigh. He shakes; flicks his head. Sanji grins at how fluffy his hair looks, all sliced through the middle by the water still left on Gin’s hands.

He’s actually rather surprised that Gin is here, though he doesn’t show it. The cooks haven’t mentioned Gin coming around on any days but the days Sanji has made an effort to return home, but then again, why would they? They’re content to let him fade into the background.

Gin starts mumbling to himself, looking over various kitchen tops for something and Sanji reaches backwards to snag another cup.

“Tea?” he asks, and Gin jolts, turning around to face him.

“Sanji.” He says almost in surprise, with some curious inflection in his voice that gives Sanji pause for the moment, but he brushes it off. It’s late, and he’s tired, and the tea has him drifting off slowly but surely. “Uh, what did you-?”

“Tea?” he asks again, tilting the other cup he’d grabbed, and Gin sits across from him, fitting awkwardly onto the stool. Sanji has given up on finding a comfortable seat for these things; he just perches on it now.

He pours a fresh cup, and tops up his own while he’s at it, then leans back with an appreciative inhale and a sigh. “You should try it,” he says when he sees that Gin is still staring at the blend like it may eat him. “It’s sweet, but it helps calm you down before sleep.”

Gin pauses for another moment, then takes a sip. Surprise flashes across his features, and Sanji grins. “It’s nice,” Gin says after a pause, and Sanji grins even wider.

“Thanks. I make it myself.”

 _It’s always going to be funny seeing his amazement,_ Sanji thinks to himself, but refuses to say it. Just in case Gin tries to hide his open-mouthed looks. He enjoys them more than he cares to admit, mainly because they make him want to laugh.

It’s probably stupid of Sanji to laugh at a gangster, but hey – what part of joining up with Luffy had been smart? What part of becoming friends with a gangster was _smart_?

No, after all this time Sanji can most certainly not take the title of genius, but he knows from experience he can beat Gin in a fight.

Though, maybe now that he’s not half-starved, he’d put up more of a challenge. Sanji makes a mental note to ask sometime, before scratching it out and reminding himself that while he has the sense to stop at _surrender_ , Gin has no qualms about killing him.

Sanji takes another small sip of tea, relishing the warmth in his stomach, and rests his head on his hand, watching Gin carefully drink.

“Why’d you try and kill me that one time?” he asks curiously, interrupting the comfortable silence.

“Who says I haven’t tried to kill you more than once?”

“I’m not dead, am I? Though, then again, you have proven to be rather a shitty assassin.”

“I’m a gangster, not an assassin.”

“You kill people. Secretly. That’s the text book definition for an assassin.”

“I don’t read many text books.”

“Neither do I, but saying something is the text book definition sounds fancy, doesn’t it?”

He can see Gin’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I suppose so,” he admits, and Sanji’s smile widens.

“Do you name your weapons like Franky names his cars?”

Gin snorts into his tea, making Sanji grin. “They’re called tonfa, and no.”

“Are you lying?”

Gin’s lips twitch again, a secretive smirk that he rolls around before finally letting Sanji catch a proper glimpse of the teasing look. “Maybe.”

Sanji sticks the tip of his tongue out, and Gin’s smile turns into a grin. “Any other questions?” Gin asks, almost teasingly.

“Only if you have some.” He says, and Gin pauses to think; slowly, carefully.

“Alright – what’s the recipe for this tea?”

“Trade secret.” He replies automatically, then pours Gin another cup and offers, “Though I can make you some tea bags, if you’d like them.”

He’s- he’s not a hundred percent sure why he’s offered that, when usually he tries to keep his recipes close-marketed (or, at least, sold to the highest bidder), but it feels right. Somehow, the thought of not offering, of disturbing the peace with a refusal doesn’t sit right.

“Thanks, Sanji.”

Gin says his name like he’s saying _sun,_ almost, deep and dragged out ‘a’, and it sounds nice to Sanji’s tired brain, so he smiles again. He has to unfold his legs from the chair so he can stand and grab the few tea bags he actually keeps around of this particular blend (most are at home, because he hates driving while tired, but he’s staying the night with Zeff so he can take a morning shift tomorrow).

 He hums as he works on finding them, and he hears Gin’s chair scrape backwards, quietly.

“Do you want a bo-” he asks, turning his head, and jolts because ah fuck ah _fuck_ Gin is really close, and for all Sanji’s jokes about him being an awful assassin, he _is_ a gangster, and the Baratie’s cooks _do not like him_ for a reason.

Sanji freezes, tense, but Gin is only staring at him. Staring at him, eyes trying to read something in Sanji’s expression, and Sanji’s not sure if he finds it or not, but he takes a step back and Sanji thinks, by the slump of his shoulders, that he hasn’t.

There is a silence that drags on, different than before, and then Gin offers quietly, “Don Krieg still wants a cook.”

“And I’m still not interested.” Sanji says, leaning against the counter, knowing every piece of equipment in this room can hurt someone, easy, knows _he_ could hurt someone, easy, and trying not to think about how Gin has offered that to him twice.

Once, he can pass off as respect.

Twice sparks his curiosity and a bit of his fear.

Three times, and then he’ll know something is wrong.

(He’s not sure if he wants to be asked three times or not. If it’s by Gin-)

“Thanks for the tea, Sanji.” Gin says softly, interrupting his thoughts, and Sanji takes a step forwards, a protest on his lips, and he’s not sure _why_ again, _why_ he wants Gin to stay, but he does and it’s weird and it’s stupid and it’s only _tea-_

Right?

“No problem.” He says weakly instead, offers a smile that feels nothing like the ones that had graced his lips before, and presses a packet of tea into Gin’s scarred hands. “Goodnight, Gin.”

“Night.” Gin says, tries to give him a smile back, but it slips off as he slips out the door.

Sanji sighs, his shoulders slumping heavily, and he reaches for the teapot and the cups to give them a rinse before he sleeps – he can’t stain the china, after all.

There’s a jacket draped across the table.

Sanji pauses, a frown furrowing his face, and switches sides, grabbing the fabric and holding it up.

It’s Gin’s jacket. He crosses to the door, Gin’s name on his lips, but then stops.

Hesitantly, he steps back into the middle of the room, out of sight of the door, and fits his arm through it, sliding it on. It hangs off his shoulders, snake curled around his arm, big and puffy and not-at-all his size, and the sleeves hang over his hands but-

It’s comfortable.

It’s nice.

He keeps half an eye on the door as he cleans, but Gin doesn’t come back that night, and the next morning the jacket is hung up beneath where Gin usually throws his apron, no evidence of Sanji’s brief stint in its hold.

* * *

 

 

 

About two weeks from then is Nami’s birthday, and, determined to not be left from the celebrations, Sanji insists that they celebrate it at the Baratie. It’s his gift to her, his time and effort and adoration poured into searching for the perfect recipes for her dinner, and he makes everything himself, just to make sure that it is _perfect._

He serves everything with a smile, breezing back and forth from the kitchen to Luffy’s table, and takes a moment to breathe in the kitchen when all the plates have been set on their table. Only desert is left, but that can wait for a while. He leans against the table they have set up in the middle of the kitchen, and takes a deep breath, feeling a smile on his face.

It’s strange how quickly they have grown on him, but grown they have. Though he can hear voices, loud and full of laughter – and the odd call of _Luffy! Don’t eat my food!_ – the sound doesn’t bother him as it normally would, if any other guest were making that much noise.  

He feels a small sigh breeze past his lips, and opens his eyes to see Gin staring at him. Sanji almost jumps, surprised, but then grins; Gin looks even more taken aback.

The door to the kitchen opens, and Nami enters, smiling brightly. Noise follows her, and it only quietens when the door swings shut. Her eyes dart to Gin, and for a second, her perfect features furrow, but the crease fades and she turns her coy smile to Sanji. “Coming?” she asks, and Sanji nods energetically, snapping to attention and offering his arm for her to take.

She laughs and hooks her arm through his, allowing him to lead her back to their table. Sanji pulls out her chair, gracefully indicating for her to take a seat, but as he leaves her fingers wrap in his cufflink, and her eyes stare straight through him, seriously.

"You know that he likes you, right?" she whispers to him, when he bends to hear her, and-

 _Oh_ , he kind of goes, because-

That- that means a few things make a bit more sense.

He still can’t help but stiffen though, because that knowledge is _awkward_ and he doesn’t know what Nami has to gain from telling him- but then again, judging by her worried gaze, maybe he does.

Maybe this is her way of saying he’s too close, don’t get caught up in it. Maybe this is her way of trying to get him to stay away from someone she perceives as dangerous. He smiles slightly grimly at the thought, twists his hand and lays a kiss against her knuckles. “No need to worry, my love, I only have eyes for you.”

Nami rolls her eyes, irritation flashing on her face, and for a moment Sanji feels regret, feels his smile falter; feels an apology brimming on his tongue. She’s turned away from him, however, and so Sanji obligingly shuffles over to sit next to Usopp.

In a few minutes, his bad mood is forgotten, and he’s drawn into their world, grinning and laughing like mad at one of Franky’s newest stories, of the time Brook went to England and accidently met the Queen and asked to see her panties.

Even if that was Nami’s way of warning him away from Gin, Sanji knows what he’s doing. He’s not stupid enough to believe that Gin will ever be his closest friend, but – to an extent – Sanji does trust him. Gin is quiet and hard-working and always ready to offer Sanji a slightly soapy hand wave when he walks into the kitchen for the first time that day. He offers calming company, makes Sanji smile and will banter with him, easily, and Sanji is good at ignoring things, so this?

This will be nothing to put from his mind. He’ll not ruin a friendship just because Nami’s told him something that he shouldn’t have really known.

* * *

 

He’s good at ignoring things, Luffy and Zoro are just damn oblivious, Usopp and Chopper will never raise an argument with him, Nami does whatever suits her, and Robin bides her time like she’s waiting to drop her cards when – and _only_ when – it will suit her. He’s pretty sure she’d know exactly when to let him get a glimpse of the information she has, and when to lead him on.

It’s a trait he finds absolutely, endlessly fascinating, and Robin seems to appreciate his showering of adoration.

He is also good at ignoring people, but he uses that ability the opposite way to most. Where Usopp’s eyes slide over gaunt bones and needle like fingers, he catalogues every trip, and when he’s back at the Baratie (he visits as often as he can spare the time from Luffy’s crazy adventures) he packs up lunchboxes full of food. 

And later he goes back to all the people he ignored before when he was prowling with Luffy and the others by his side, and sets down small boxes filled with the basic staples, and prays that none of them will get sick. It hurts, to be given food when you’re hungry but then feel it twist and churn in your stomach and come straight back up.

His stomach feels like that right now; angrily knotted and tying tighter, and Sanji can’t help his dry mouth.

The Baratie-  

The Baratie is gone.

* * *

 

Luffy finds him when he doesn’t show up for their meeting, and hasn’t replied to their texts.

Nami lets him in, which Sanji would be – should be – more surprised about, but honestly, he isn’t. She has a reputation as a thief after all. She wrinkles her nose upon seeing the state of his apartment, and he almost winces, but her expression is replaced by melancholy when she sees him.

He wants to be excitedly about it (Nami has noticed him! Nami is concerned for him!) but his heart still aches from Gin’s betrayal, no matter how much he tries to argue that it was likely just another order from Don Krieg.

He’d _known_ Gin worked for Don Krieg. How could he have been so stupid? Hell, Gin had practically told him the plan, and yet Sanji had refused to see it, complacent in his ability to protect all he held dear!

Well now the restaurant that had been his life blood was nothing but ash, and his food – the few meals he’s managed to cook – tastes much the same.

Luffy sits by his head on the couch, and Sanji sighs, turning away from the pillow and knowing Luffy knows exactly what his red-rimmed eyes mean.

“Gin did it,” Sanji mumbles hollowly, when he meets Luffy’s gaze, “Or, at least, Don Krieg ordered him too, but Gin-”

Luffy pats him softly on the head. Sanji’s half expecting him to say _I told you so,_ but then he remembers; this is Luffy. Maybe if it were Nami or Zoro, or maybe even Usopp- but Luffy has no need for the satisfaction of being right.

“Want me to kick his ass?” Luffy offers, and somehow it seems weird that Sanji is being offered the choice. Why should _he_ care what happens to that lying bastard? Why is Luffy waiting for Sanji’s approval? Why hasn’t Luffy just _done something,_ damn the consequences, just like he always does?

Sanji can feel his heart race and grits his teeth, but catches Luffy’s gaze again and pauses. He slumps back into the couch cushions bonelessly. Anger feels like something unfathomable, draining from him as fast as it forms, because all he feels right now is simply _empty._

The Baratie is – was – his life, and now that it has burnt to the ground he feels like his life’s story has been reset. Like he has to build everything back up again. The Baratie was a part of _him,_ and to think of it in past tense instead of present, to think of it as part of his past instead of his future-

It hurts.

So, _so_ much.

He shakes his head numbly, curling up on the couch, and Luffy continues to pet him gently.

“You could kick his ass?” Luffy offers, almost hopefully, and Sanji sighs.

“I don’t want to kick his ass,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, and he sniffles. “I just want to go home.”

* * *

 

It takes him only a day to find Gin; it was easier than he thought it would be, but then again, Luffy knows a lot of people. And those people know even more. It’s not hard to track down one man, especially when it seems like he wants to be found.

Sanji gets off the bus, brushing off his suit, and glares at Gin’s back as he crosses the road, refusing to let that familiar snake design from his sight. Zeff has his car, trying to find a bank that will lend them money to rebuild the Baratie – but all the ones they’ve found so far take one look at the calling card embossed into the building’s walls and shake their heads.

“ _Gin!_ ” he calls, and his voice echoes, the anger carrying through the air. Gin whirls, hands immediately dropping to his sides, and Sanji just _knows_ he has his tonfa there, but he’s already whipped out his leg, and Gin only just barely manages to block him, skidding backwards on the pavement.

It’s sunset, red glow to their shadows, and no-one stops to look at Sanji’s brutal, sudden attack; they keep their heads down, and though he doesn’t care usually, he’s glad for it. This is private, stupidly so.   

This is him saying _I believed Nami,_ and wondering why the thought that Gin cared more for Don Krieg than him hurts so fucking much. This is him half yelling at Gin, that it _hurt_ to be kept out of the loop, to be lied to, to have heard the truth from someone else.

This is him saying-

_“I don’t want to kick his ass,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, and he sniffles. “I just want to go home.”_

_Luffy makes a tiny, sad noise, his expression all drawn up in helplessness, and Sanji forces himself to sit up, rubbing a hand across his snotty nose. He can’t just sit there feeling sorry for himself, no matter how much he wants to._

_“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Nami chides quietly from Sanji’s kitchen door, and Sanji twists, knowing he should get up, offer refreshments, offer_ something _, but unable to convince himself to._

_“It’ll make him feel better though.” Luffy protests, and Nami shakes her head, her shoulder resting against the door frame._

_“Not if he’s fighting someone who didn’t do it.”_

_Sanji blinks, once. Twice. He feels like shaking his head, just to check if he’s heard her correctly, but everything looks fine, and he heard everything before just fine._

_“What do you mean, he didn’t do it?”_

_“What other meaning could I possibly have?” Nami retorts, before softening, taking pity on him. “Sanji, Don Krieg is throwing a fucking hissy fit because one of his best men has been on the job for months, and hasn’t_ done anything.”

_“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it-”_

_Nami casts him a glare that has his mouth snapping closed with a quiet click._

_“We already have who did it. How do you think we know that Gin was the one who_ didn’t _do it?”_

He hears Gin grunt as Sanji hits him in the side, and then his leg drops to the pavement and in two strides he’s moved forwards and his spindly fingers run down Gin’s shirt, latch onto his lapels and pulling tight. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he gets out through gritted teeth, head bowed and barely able to hold back the shakes that make his hands quaver. “Why the fuck would you-”

He lets out an unintelligible sound, unable to articulate the emotions that are boiling inside him. He feels like a lobster that’s finally realised the pot it sits in has been steadily getting hotter, and just like the lobsters they cook he can’t get out, he’s stuck in his flushed skin and dying and he can _realise it_.

Why the fuck had he ever let Gin get this close?

_Shouldn’t have fucking done that._

Gin’s hands wrap around his own, red beads standing stark against their intertwined fingers. Black and white, scarred and soft (well, softer).

“Oy,” Gin says, voice as gruff as it normally is but there’s a shake on the end that Sanji knows is because of pain. “The hell’re you talking about?”

“You think I wouldn’t fucking figure it out?” he says, “You think I don’t know everything that goes on here? You fucking- _Goddamnit_!” he growls when Gin only looks at him impassively. He rips their grip apart, and his shoulders jump, twitching back and forth like that one time he’d tried to quit smoking. Deprivation, though of what he’s not sure. “Are you kidding me? Don Krieg will kill you.He won’t even care.”

Gin’s eyes are sharp grey, little glitters of shrapnel, but he doesn’t raise a word in his – or Kreig’s – defence. More words bubble in the back of Sanji’s throat, forming desperate pleas like, _and what will I do then?_ but he doesn’t say anything, can’t force himself to vocalise that.

He _can’t_.

It’d be like admitting he’s fallen off a cliff, he knows he’s done it, he knows he’s stepped off the edge, he did it gladly, but he can’t fucking admit it because admitting it just means that-

That Gin will know he’s fallen hard and fast and there’s no way he’ll ever be able to get back up. The cliff edge he fell off is too fucking steep for him to climb, and what’s he meant to do about that?

Gin stares at him, hands still raised, but then they drop back to his sides and fall into his pockets. His shoulders hunch and his eyes flick away, just barely. “Well I can’t let them hurt you, can I?” Gin says and it sounds almost childish; petulant. “I ain’t sacrificing anything.”

Sanji’s speechless – in rage or in respect. He’s not sure.

What he does know for sure is that Gin, throwing his life away?

He’s not allowed to fucking do that.

Not now, not ever. Sanji didn’t feed him that day when he was starving just so Gin could follow him around, trying to pay him back for a plate of food that Sanji would have given anyone if they were hungry.

They pause, stuck.

He can feel the tension thrumming in the air like a held note from a guitar, strained and savage. 

Then, he sighs. The hold on his shoulders drops, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Gin,” he says, and now he knows why Gin says his name like _sun._ Like it’s valuable, like it’s a prayer; it feels like one coming from his lips. He’s not sure what to do about that but Gin seems to know because his head snaps up and he looks at Sanji like a miracle has occurred.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

Sanji wets his lips. Runs his tongue over dry, chapped, skin.

“Just…don’t do that, okay? I can protect myself. I don’t need you to do it for me.”

“I know you don’t,” says Gin, so blatant and matter-of-fact that for a moment Sanji is taken back. “I’m gonna do it anyway.”

Anger curls in him again but he doesn’t know how to vocalise it and it writhes restlessly, churning between his collarbone, the spaces in his ribs, thrashing at the end of his heart.

A huff leaves his nose; not a sigh this time, but it is exasperated. “You’re so fucking stupid,” he says ruefully, shaking his head.

Gin grins at him. “Only just figuring that out?”

* * *

 

Don Krieg doesn’t kill Gin.

Sanji half lives in the fear of it, in the knowledge that Gin could die because he tried to protect Sanji, and it weighs heavily. He is simultaneously aware of why that is and studiously ignoring it, and spends the next week either in a daze or snapping at anyone that gets in his way.

There’s no more Baratie, and so Sanji doesn’t see Gin for weeks; there’s no excuse, no dishes to wash that Sanji can stand next to and chide when Gin misses a spot, can laugh about customers or cooks with, and so he doesn’t miss it when Gin walks into the grand reopening of the Baratie.

Baratie point two, a new life, only this time Sanji’s still got part of his old one left hanging around, and he’s not sure he wants to be part of Baratie point two.

He spots Gin sticking out like a sore thumb, and the trail of upturned noses in his wake makes him easy to follow. Familiarity is a comfort, and he latches onto Gin’s wrist intent on asking him where he’s been and what he’s been doing and a million other questions that have started boiling in his head but-

But everything gets shoved from his mind when Gin winces.

Sanji immediately lets go, knowing concern is written all over his features, and he can see Gin’s face morph with regret. “Hello, Sanji.” He says, almost dully, “I was looking for Zeff.”

“Because you missed washing dishes so much?” he asks, hint of a smile on the corner of his lips, but it vanishes as he continues. “Or for Krieg?” Gin doesn’t answer, but his expression closes off and Sanji can feel his mouth turn down. “Thought so.”

“Krieg is my family.” Gin gets out lowly through gritted teeth, “I don’t expect you to understand-”

“Oh I understand perfectly, alright. What I think _you_ don’t understand is the definition of _family._ ”

An angry huff of air is blown through Gin’s nose, and Sanji grips his wrist again, trying to drag him away from the crowded party so they can talk in piece. Gin winces, and this time Sanji can feel the jolt go through Gin’s whole arm. He drops Gin’s wrist, watches as Gin, for half a second, cradles it close.

“I’m going to kill him.” He says, eyes stuck on how stiff Gin’s wrist is, how it barely bends.

“Don’t you dare.” Gin orders, teeth bared, but all Sanji can do is shake his head, knowing that this is too far, knowing with absolute certainty that as soon as he asks Luffy is going to grin viciously and jump at the chance.

Luffy hadn’t liked Gin at first, having heard the name in association with _slaughter,_ but Sanji knew that Luffy would help if asked. Luffy _was_ friends-of-a-friend with everyone, after all, and Gin was Sanji’s-

Friend. Obviously.  

(Obviously or not, the title doesn’t feel right, yet he has no idea what to change it to. Best friend sounds childish and wrong, but his vocabulary is limited when it comes to describing how much Gin means to him – _what_ Gin means to him.)

“Promise I won’t kill him, then,” Sanji says, feeling his lips stretch thin in a mockery of a smile, and he’s turning on his heel, about to vanish into the crowd to find Luffy when Gin suddenly grabs his hand.

Sanji freezes, feeling Gin’s palm against his fingertips, feeling Gin’s skin on his, feeling his heartbeat start to race a million miles an hour. He turns, slowly, and can see Gin looking at him, reading Sanji like he did so long ago back in the kitchen, when Sanji had almost fallen asleep at the table, drinking tea with his enemy-turned-ally (even if Sanji may not have known it at the time).

He seems to find something he hadn’t seen before, and the tense hold on his shoulders eases.

 “Come back. Got it?” he demands softly, but there’s something like fear in his eyes as his grip tightens on Sanji’s hand and brings it to his mouth.

Gin’s lips press to his knuckles; softly. Sanji can hear the slightest sound of Gin’s lips parting, sees Gin’s eyes close slowly. Sanji can’t help but stare, and his face feels hot and something twists in his throat and his stomach and he has no idea what to do but at the same time he feels like he does know, and that- _that_ isconfusing.

He stares as Gin opens his eyes, watching him, lips still against Sanji’s skin, breath dancing across his fingers, and tries to swallow his heart, because he feels he’ll be sick – but, strangely enough, in a good way.

He swallows again and can barely muster up a smirk when met with the serious look in Gin’s eyes. “Promise.”

* * *

The dishes clack quietly against one another, but Gin’s hands are steady and sure from practice. His wrist healed well, that Sanji can tell with ease, and he thanks Chopper silently. 

The sound of the fan in his dining room is overpowered by the cicadas outside, and a cool breeze blows through his open windows, ruffling Gin’s hair.

Sanji can still remember Gin, shoulders tight, and hair lank. It's a strange difference to see him relaxed, but Sanji can't say he dislikes it. Gin looks so much healthier now, and Sanji takes no small amount of pride in being a part of that.

Gin still flinches slightly when Sanji lays his fingertips on Gin's shoulder blade, habit of necessity, but then he relaxes and tilts his head, giving Sanji an indulgent smile. "Thanks for dinner."

"Thanks for doing the dishes," he shoots back, and Gin grins.

"Thanks for asking me on a date."

"Really? We're doing this?" Sanji questions, leaning on the bench next to Gin, and it feels almost like deja vu, knowing that they've done this so many times. Gin grins like the little shit he is, and Sanji bumps his shoulder before saying, "Thanks for accepting, asshole."

"Thanks for not being a shit."

"I am _never_ a shit, thank you very much," Sanji huffs, and Gin laughs and presses a kiss to Sanji's cheek. He's stunned into silence, still mostly unused to Gin's casual displays of affection, but then feels his lips stretch into a smile. "Thanks for the kiss," he whispers teasingly, bending his head so they share space and watching Gin's eyes soften.

"You're a sap," Gin says, shaking his head, and Sanji kisses him, grinning. He pulls away slowly, taking in Gin's face.

Gin still always looks like – when Sanji's close to him, when Sanji kisses him – that there's meant to be a prayer on his parted lips (which Sanji just thinks is a stupid thought, there's nothing worth worshiping about him but his ability to cook, not kiss).

It still-

Gin's expression still makes his heart do something funny in his chest, though. Like it's shrinking and expanding at the same time, in a way that's painful, but not.

There's a snappy reply on his tongue, more than one, in truth, but he hesitates in saying it, feels his mouth move with something else.

“Thanks for being in love with me.”

 “Anytime.”


End file.
